Poetry

Nestling in the arms of 
blue sky, a young moon was asking 
the questions―like the pages of moth-eaten 
book― why did the blood ties 
are ripped apart with the passage of time? 
 
Of the same poles, at the 
axis of rotation― two celestial bodies― 
would not come near each other? 
 
Following the heels of the 
hunter, a small dog star sniffs at 
the earth, a pale blue existence? 
 
The entropion overwhelms. The 
lashes were scarring the 
vision? 
 
The all was not one. I am 
still standing at the gate, 
bleeding like sun.